


santa, baby

by brawlite



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alcohol, HYDRA Trash Party, HYDRA Trash Party adjacent, M/M, Manipulation, brock exploiting clint's daddy-kink, brock rumlow is awful, holiday parties are always trainwrecks, jack and natasha being bros who occasionally sleep together, this has no redeeming value as per usual, totally implied one-sided clint/phil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-26
Updated: 2015-12-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 10:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5536922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brock is Santa at the annual SHIELD holiday party. Jack gets to be embarrassed for the both of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	santa, baby

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Jack's talking to himself, but that doesn't necessarily stop anyone from hearing him. Or answering.

"Apparently not." Romanoff's voice is familiar, even over the din of the Holiday party. Jack knows it in all of its glory: from barking orders on missions, to whispering witty things behind hands in briefings, all the way to moaned nothings under thin sheets on warm summer nights. It's not like they're a _thing_ \-- it's just that they both enjoy sex and they're usually in the same place at the same time.

Perhaps they're something close to friends, maybe.

Jack doesn't need to follow her eyes to see that she's looking at the same goddamn trainwreck he is. The room is a large one, cluttered with groups of SHIELD employees, but off in the corner there's a little Santa's workshop -- complete with fake trees, a cheesy little backdrop, and a giant gold chair. The chair is ornate, decorated with jewels and a plush maroon pillow, and has been topped with a grinning, drunken Santa Claus all goddamn night.

"Well, it looks like they're enjoying themselves."

Santa, at some point, has pulled his fake white beard down around his chin, and Brock's tanned face is shining through in all of its stubbled glory. He has rotated through a lot of people throughout the night, all drunkenly stumbling into his lap and asking for various Christmas treats with glee. They all left after a couple of minutes though, feeling the weight of awkwardly sitting on coworker's knee for a beat too long. All except one SHIELD agent, who has been perched on Rumlow's knee for at a lingering five minutes: Clint Barton.

It's fucking ridiculous, is what it is. "Jesus Christ," Jack grumbles, and downs the rest of his champagne. Luckily, Romanoff has already flagged down a wandering waiter and swaps his empty with a full.

Brock has clearly had at least a bottle of champagne -- either that, or he skipped the champagne entirely and went straight to the whiskey. He's got Barton perched all the way up his lap and is holding him there with his hands cupped around Barton's ass. He's not even trying to hide his amorous intentions, and is whispering all sorts of things into Barton's ear. Barton is bright red and blushing like Rumlow is telling him explicitly how he is going to take him apart -- which, honestly, he probably is.

"Can you read lips?" Somehow, Romanoff always takes him by surprise. Even when she's right there: there's just something inherently disarming about her. Even in the presumably designer evening gown she is wearing, perhaps even more so.

Disarming as she is, she didn't even need to ask the question. Of course he can, but a lot of times be chooses not to. Like now -- he doesn't need to 'listen' in, just to know that Rumlow is playing on Barton's glaring daddy issues, asking him if he's been a _good boy_ or not, practically bouncing the other man on his knee. It's disgusting. Jack doesn't answer, just curses under his breath and takes a long sip of champagne.

After ten minutes of exchanging something close to pleasantries with Romanoff, Barton is still sitting on Rumlow's lap. "For Christ's sake." They haven't kissed, but Barton is already sporting at least three angry looking hickeys. And, Jack can't bring himself to check, but he'd bet that both of them are achingly hard, especially with the way Brock's got Clint rocking on his knee. It's such a public display of depravity that it's hard to look at, hard to swallow.

"When is this thing over?" Jack wants to go home and run some battery acid over his eyes. And maybe drink himself into a coma.

Romanoff has a smile in her voice she answers, somehow still amused by the whole thing. "Once Agent Hand and Agent Sitwell starts singing carols, everyone will clear out. But until then, it looks like Santa is occupied."

Jack looks over at the wrong moment and sees Brock's lips move, his words loud and clear, even with how drunk Brock is. And how drunk Jack is, honestly.

_'You gonna be a good boy for me, baby? Make up for how naughty you were this year?'_

It's disgusting, watching the way Brock runs his fingertips down Clint's jaw, how he runs a warm hand up Clint's thigh, how he bounces his knee, makes Clint rock on it. How it looks like Clint is moaning and panting already. Brock is good with people -- he always has been. He's friendly and outgoing and his smile, when he wants it to, can light up a while room. But he's also good at reading people, at manipulating people. And unfortunately, it looks like Clint's buttons are exceptionally easy to press, that some things are just so close to the surface. And it's not that Jack necessarily would mind hauling Clint in between the both of them, of taking him apart with Brock at the helm -- it's just that he doesn't like how public this whole charade is. He doesn't like the fact that everyone they work with, peers and bosses alike, can see Brock and Clint behaving so goddamn crudely, like drunken teenagers. It's one thing outside of a bar in an alley, one of Brock and Jack's little quickies, but another thing at work, in the middle of a party.

"Since Santa seems to be otherwise occupied, is there anything you'd like for Christmas, Agent Rollins?" And Romanoff: she says everything with a smile, a little crook to her lips and a twinkle in her eye -- and Jack has never been able to figure out exactly what she means when she says anything. But, given their general camaraderie and situation, it clearly doesn't matter. He hasn't made the wrong assumption, or choice, so far.

He tears his eyes away from the trainwreck that is the whole Santa fiasco, and runs a hand down his face. "To keep my pride." He exchanges their drinks again with a wandering waiter, and sighs. "But that's long gone." Gone, with Brock's sobriety and Barton's unexplored authority kink. Now: Brock is drunk, Barton is probably three seconds away from calling Santa "Daddy", and Jack doesn't even remember what pride feels like. Natasha, however, is impeccable and unruffled as she ever is.

"Do I recall you ever having that?" She bumps her shoulder into his arm and smirks up at him. Even though Natasha is shorter than him, she has an element of height that Jack doesn't think that even he has. Certainly, out of everyone in in the room, he wouldn't want to go up against her if it came down to it -- she is is leagues above the competition.

Brock, on the other side of the room, however, has never had any pride. And if he did, it probably would have disappeared at age ten, and certainly would have never stuck around for something like this. And Barton? Jack doesn't know the kid well, other than knowing he's the best goddamn shot in the organization, but he figures he doesn't have much pride either. He has noticed the way the guy follows his handler around like a lovesick teenager -- and clearly Brock has noticed that too. It's an easy weakness to manipulate, especially considering Barton clearly hasn't had that authority itch scratched, yet.

Jack watches as Brock rearranges Clint on his lap, oblivious to the raised eyebrows around them and the way that, suddenly, the Santa's workshop corner is now conspicuously underpopulated. Totally deserted, actually. Romanoff clears her throat and leans on him a little more as she takes a sip of her drink, poised. "You have to admit, it's kind of hot."

At that, he has to look down at her, half skeptical. But she's not smiling like its a joke -- she's focused across the room, eyes trained on Barton, who is now straddled across Rumlow's lap. The kid is gently rocking, propelled by Brock's hands, all while 'Santa' whispers filth in his ear. And -- Jack has to admit, it's kind of hot. Just a little bit, anyway, knowing that Brock is manipulating the fuck out of Barton, knowing that Barton would fall to his knees and blow Rumlow in front of all of his coworkers, if Brock were to just call him a _good boy_.

Jack swallows. "Guess so."

And yeah -- yeah, Jack could watch that. He could sit in a chair in the corner while Brock fucks the daylights out of Clint. And, hell, what would make that even better would be Romanoff being a part of it too. In whatever form or fashion she wanted -- Jack'll do pretty much anything when it comes to a woman as gorgeous and capable as Natasha: including letting her fuck him. And boy, had that been worth it in the past, because Natasha never did anything by halves.

Jack blinks, and the next thing he knows, Rumlow is guiding Barton toward the door, palm on his lower back. "Fuck," he grumbles, knowing full well he's probably going to find them in a closet on the way out, not at all as inconspicuous as they'd like. And it means that Jack has to deal with the resulting mess, and the resulting drunken, fucked-out Rumlow. God, what a nightmare. Not to mention, it would've been nice to get laid tonight, instated of having to deal with this catastrophe in a Santa suit, even if it had been fine to watch for a moment or two.

However, before he can become too disgruntled and his chest can get too tight with anger, he feels a small hand slide into his. He looks down to find Romanoff looking up at him, eyes bright with purpose and poise. "Well?" She gives his hand a slight squeeze and a tug toward the door. "Aren't you coming with?"

And with that, she guides him toward the doorway and in pursuit of terrible Christmas choices.

Maybe they can even find a closet big enough for four.

**Author's Note:**

> happy christmas, trash friends.


End file.
